The title here is a throwback. A sudden reminder of the past–for some. Someone or something that seems to belong to an earlier period of time or that makes you think of an earlier period. Now I have done it: I have made it come alive! Memoriesofatime. More specifically, it usually means something that is nostalgic, with memories, something back in the day, something old school, say Animal House? 1978? “A lot of his work is a throwback…” “Nostalgia does not have eternal life. I use nostalgia when I’m in a bad situation, when I’m feeling stressed, or when the world is an ugly place to read about or to watch on television. I use nostalgia to escape. But my own kids are not nostalgic in the same way. They’re nostalgic if something is trending. And then they’ll go back and look it up and learn about something that happened a long time ago.” –Steven Spielberg. “A New Reality Reveals Something Classic” by Stephanie Zacharek. TIME, 9 Apr. 2018. 48.

How naive was I? Was I a naive naif? [naive adj. naif noun.]

Once upon a time, years before I became a high school classroom teacher, I was doing a course research paper on metaphysical poets and the Bible’s Song of Songs, the Song of Solomon. There I sat, often for hours in the library, without Google or the Internet “back in the day,” my self surrounded by stacks and piles of books, reading, copying, digesting, writing, taking notes, formulating, explaining, preparing a paper.

Student doing research

I learned that Song of Songs has a long history of interpretation. The Song of Songs can be a challenging read, like the true poems of the metaphysical poets whose words are read on different levels of understanding: meta-physical. How does one explain “Batter my heart, three-personed God . . . / . . . ravish me”? (John Donne) Imagine being ravished by God? Researchers know how “one thing leads to another,” one topic moves, suggests, or links to another. Soon, a researcher might be “off topic,” but is enjoying the readings that have now melded into a new area, causing research-distress: “Should I pursue this? This is really interesting.” Soon time becomes an enemy as it presses-presses-presses to get something done before deadlines are missed.

“Cavalier” poets and metaphysical poetry and erotic Bible verses and commentators, who, “seeking the literal sense of the book of Solomon, have explained it as a celebration of conjugal love in marriage,” then little by little began to touch on the topic of censorship. I was writing about a love song in the Old Testament, simple enough, so I thought.

Occasionally, though, an article would refer to the erotic nature of the work–and how it was censored, forbidden, removed from a certain edition, or “emended.” On the other hand, Jewish and Christian scholars often took an allegorical view of this book of the Old Testament as a mosaic of love poems that has a loosely defined plot. (The “literal” subject is about love and sexual longing between a man and a woman–and it has little [or nothing] to say about the relationship of God and man.)

Nevertheless, I was slowly being drawn into the censorship issue, about which I knew so little, was so “naive.” I wanted more time; I needed more time for this “sidebar.” NO! I completed my poetry paper (B+/A-), and thought no more of

CENSORSHIP

“And as you prepare your lesson plans and syllabus, please do remember not to say anything about or even mention the book The Catcher in the Rye,” my department chairman cautioned me during our first meeting: new teacher (naive naif), teacher-boss. So I did not, and Holden Caulfield stayed under wraps–until I had to read the book for a graduate course later that fall in contemporary American literature.

For the three years I taught at the all boys-to-men Catholic high school, I followed and selected from the prescribed readings lists, including Life on the Mississippi, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Red Badge of Courage, and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I/we did all right with the reading lists while I taught grades 9, 11, and 12. No troubles. The troubles came from elsewhere: the radio, school dances, record stores, The Top Ten.

“What was that dirty song we’ve been hearing about?” parents asked. “Did you play that song at the school dance?” “Louie Louie, me gotta go. . . .” “Who are the Kingsmen?” So there was going to be a Parents’ Night in the school cafeteria to discuss the song and the music, assuring them that the lyrics were dirty and should be banned (CENSORED) and re-assuring those parents that the music would never be heard in the school. “Louie Louie, me gotta go / Me see Jamaica moon above / It won’t be long, me see my love. . . .”

Whatever made this song the victim of censorship was a cultural phenomenon. It is a mystery. The song has remained a cult favorite since it was top-o-the charts from the ending months of 1963 through 1964, then continuing with its revivalism in the rebelliousness of Animal House, with John Belushi and Company, in 1978.

The nearly unintelligible (and innocuous) lyrics were widely misinterpreted as obscene, and the song was banned by radio stations (and in Catholic schools). The FBI concluded, after thorough investigations, dragging on through 1965, with each laboratory examination of the record deemed inconclusive. “Oh, oh, me gotta go.” So the record couldn’t be declared obscene. Nearly four hundred versions of the song have been recorded since then, many easily found in sing-along versions on You Tube!

Its original author, Richard Berry, who wrote his song’s lyrics in a fake Jamaican vernacular, attempting to benefit from the American calypso craze of the mid-fifties, could hardly have predicted the longevity of “Louie Louie” as a rock-and-roll anthem. “In 1955 I was performing in California with a Latin band. While in the dressing room, I heard instrumentals. I took a piece of toilet paper and wrote the lyrics on the toilet paper. . . . The singer is a sailor, and he’s talking to Louie. . . . I never could understand the popularity of it. [And the comma?] Louie Louie. No comma.”Richard Berry [1935-1997] died in his sleep; he was 61. He had sold the rights to “Louie” and other works for $750. In the mid-1980s, Berry was living on welfare in South Central L.A. A drinks company wanted to use “Louie” in a commercial, and needed the rights. Through some legal help, Richard Berry was able to obtain royalties worth about two million dollars.

I still have some of my old censorship notes, and notes from later incidents of censorship that I became involved in: library banned books, classroom books, elementary school sex education programs, videos and films, and even the topic of censoring works of art while I was teaching humanities and art history. And what about 1984? Brave New World? A Handmaid’sTale? Also, even, Song of Songs? But it was the ‘60s culture, my being right in it all, that “Louie Louie” survives as part of my memoriesofatime of censorship.

I sat through the Parents’ Meetings, keeping my mouth shut, keeping quiet. This storm will pass, I thought. It did. And the last week of school, in 1966, at the Senior Class Party, “my” seniors played me a post-teenage-alienation song, against a very restrictive society in thought and behavior and dress. They knew I would like it: built on variants of the “Louie Louie” riff: “Get Off of My Cloud” by the Rolling Stones. Oh, oh, me gotta go. . . .

Of course, we young Catholics growing up in Chicago learned of the exploits of “Uncle Hugh”: how he bravely fought the bloody British English Anglican Protestants of Queen Elizabeth I. How he died bravely for Roman Catholicism and has been revered through the centuries in the Celtic-Gaelic rich hagiographical tradition of Ireland. I always pictured him fighting Essex, Uncle Hugh looking like Errol Flynn, handsome as all get out, or Tyrone Power. Those black-and-white movies fed my young imagination. And on it went, wars and outrages, through the awfulnesses of Cromwell’s later reign and more, through “Sunday, Bloody Sunday…” and…

But for now, I want to share some bit of what is/”might be” the True Word: Hugh O’Neill (Irish: Aodh Mór Ó Néill; literally Hugh The Great O’Neill; c. 1550–20 July 1616), was an Irish Gaelic lord, Earl of Tyrone (known as the Great Earl and was later created The Ó Néill. O’Neill’s career was played out against the background of the Tudor conquest of Ireland, and he is best known for leading the resistance during the Nine Years’ War. Hugh O’Neill lived in England from the age of nine as a protégé of Queen Elizabeth I. (Really!) He was proclaimed Earl of Tyrone in 1585. The crown used him as an ally in Gaelic controlled Ulster, warring against the Scots. (Do the Scots know this? The Scots-Irish folks?) However, by 1595, he had issued a challenge to Tudor power. (What went wrong?)

Warring followed; promises were made; treaties were broken. Lands were bartered. A queen died; a new king, and throughout a nine-year exile, Uncle Hugh was active in plotting a return to Ireland, toying variously both with schemes to oust English authority outright and with proposed offers of pardon from London. It was not to be (but almost…). Uncle Hugh O’Neill died in Rome on 20 July 1616 (probably). Controversy still remains about his role in Irish history: what his ultimate goal was for the people or the land or for his own power. (Talk with a British historian, for one.)

Today the ancient O’Neills flourish in Ireland, Europe, and the New World. Clan organizations and meetings are held regularly, and the family organization is recognized by every possible Irish historical governing body. As they were for over a thousand years, the O’Neill family has once again returned to a position of cultural leadership in modern Ulster. The unique and difficult history of the family has allowed it to see beyond the sectarian divide of the recent past. The clan’s goals now state that they strive for a future that prizes peace and economic development across Ulster. [Wikipedia]

It is a common misconception that there is one coat of arms associated to everyone of a common surname, when, in fact, a coat of arms is property passed through direct lineage. This means that there are numerous families of O’Neill under various spellings that are related, but because they are not the direct descendants of an O’Neill that owned an armorial device, they do not have rights or claims to any arms themselves.

The coat of arms of the O’Neills of Ulster, the branch that held the title of High Kings of Ireland, were white with a red left hand (latterly, the Red Hand of Ulster), and it is because of this prominence that the red hand (though a right hand is used today, rather than the left used by the high kings) has also become a symbol of IRELAND, ULSTER, TYRONE, and other places associated with the family of O’Neills. The red hand by itself has become a symbol of the O’Neill name, such that when other O’Neill family branches were granted or assumed a heraldic achievement, this red hand was often incorporated into the new coat of arms in some way. The red hand is explained by several legends, with a common theme but of a promise of land to the first man to sail or swim across the sea and touch the shores of Ireland. Many contenders arrive, including a man named O’Neill, who begins to fall behind the others. O’Neill cuts off his left hand and throws it onto the beach before the other challengers can reach the shore, becoming the first to touch land and win all of Ireland as his prize. These legends seem to originate (or to have been written down) in the 17th century, centuries after the red hand device was first used by O’Neill families.

Currently, the official flag of Northern Ireland is the Union Flag of the United Kingdom. However, from 1953 until 1973, the Ulster Banner (also known as the Ulster flag) was used by the Parliament of Northern Ireland; since its abolition, use of the flag has been limited to representing Northern Ireland in certain sports, at some local councils, and at some other organizations and occasions. Despite this, the Ulster Banner is still commonly seen and referred to as the flag of Northern Ireland, especially by those from the unionist and loyalist communities.

* * *

The national flag of Ireland–frequently referred to as the Irish tricolor–is the national flag and ensign of the Republic of Ireland.

The flag was adopted by the Irish Republic during the Irish War of Independence (1919–1921). The flag’s use was continued by the Irish Free State (1922–1937), and it was later given constitutional status under the 1937 Constitution of Ireland. The tricolor is often used by nationalists on both sides of the border as the national flag of the whole island of Ireland.

The green pale of the flag symbolizes Roman Catholics, the orange represents the minority Protestants who were supporters of William of Orange, who had defeated King James II of England and his predominantly Irish Catholic army. (It was included in the Irish flag in an attempt to reconcile the Orange Order in Ireland with the Irish independence movement.) The white in the center signifies a lasting peace and hope for union between Protestants and Catholics in Ireland. The flag, as a whole, is intended to symbolize the inclusion and hoped-for union of the people of different traditions on the island of Ireland, which is expressed in the Constitution as the entitlement of every person born in Ireland to be part of the independent Irish nation, regardless of ethnic origin, religion, or political conviction.(Of course, there are, and have been, many exceptions to the general beneficent theory. Green was also used as the color of such Irish bodies as the mainly-Protestant and non-sectarian Friendly Brothers of St. Patrick, established in 1751. PROTESTANTS FOR SAINT PATRICK!)

So ends the Irish history lesson for this, Saint Paddy’s Day, 2018. There will be no test, no quiz. No papers are required. Only remember some Irish Prayer, and

May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
the rain fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of his hand.

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“I’d ban all automobiles from the central part of the city. You see, the automobile was just a passing fad. It’s got to go. It’s got to go a long way from here.” –Lawrence Ferlinghetti

* * * *

A. Driving My Mom: My mother worked at the Federal Reserve Bank in downtown Chicago. This was one of her jobs I can remember. She worked from 11 pm–7 am. She didn’t drive to work. She didn’t drive–ever. And no one ever let her take a bus or subway at night. So, someone had to drive her to work each night, leaving at around 9:30 pm. For years my dad did this while I was in high school. When I earned my driver’s license, I became the chauffeur, even on some school nights, most of my duties coming in 1958-1960, with our 1956 Chevy. What great driving experience, learning city streets, unencumbered by daytime traffic. And, in the spring and summer, what beautiful rides home, windows down, radio-for-teen-driver blaring along the Outer Drive. Home from college on vacation, I assumed my duties once again as she continued to work. (She always took public transportation home in the mornings.) [My fiancé and I did enjoy making some off-to-work trips for my mom. On the return, we had a chance to stop at Oak Street Beach or some other beautiful place to spend some quiet time together.]

* * * *

No doubt each of us has stories–memoriesofatime–we can relate about our automobiles or driving habits and incidents or how we first committed “vehicularism”: “steering any automotive vehicle in a proper and correct manner; learning to drive a vehicle appropriately.” My enumeration of vehicles I’ve had and used, from my “First,” a 1950 Ford to my current 2016 KIA SOUL, may be longer than some, shorter than others.’ But with each car or auto, there goes at least one anecdote, or several stories, that could go on for pages of memories. A few, however, I highlight as part of my trilogy “Are We There Yet?”

* * * *

When young, growing up, I never played cops-n-robbers. I never played cowboys-n-Indians (though I did have a cap gun six-shooter). I played Soldiers at War. I crawled through bushes and along city sidewalks and through alleys, skinning my knees, carrying my Thompson “Tommy” gun–or I would set up the “50-cal” on its tripod in the front yard. In the house, I played fighter pilot or bombardier. Mostly Flip Corkin of Terry and the Pirates, or Steve Canyon–or John Wayne as a Flying Tiger.

The elevated, behind our apartment building in Chicago, ran parallel to Van Buren Street. Under that dark brown rusting structure, my sister and I played. When the family’s ’37 Plymouth was parked there, we drove for miles and miles in our imaginations, swinging around the steering wheel, working the pedals. (Did we have anything to do with the clutch going out, and the purchase of that sleek black ’49 Ford? Hmmm.)

Elevated Tracks and Alley

Our first “big people” car was the two-tone Our Family Chevy, 1952. I thought I could drive that car, bold and brassy “big people” that I thought I was becoming! However, of course, I had to wait awhile…for the Chevrolet 210, new, in 1956. This was to be my real learning-taught-mobile.

1956 Chevrolet 210

In this car, my dad taught me his Rules of the Road: charity (“Give ‘em a break and let ‘em in), and his sometimes “Two-Right-Turns-Are-Better-Than-A-Left” philosophy. He taught me well, to stay in my lane (while he would have small heart attacks as I drove down the boulevard’s middle lane), and how to “play the lights” to make all the greens. He helped me pass my license test on the first solo. “Of course,” he said. Then I began the drive to the Bank, taking my mom to work (not alone, bringing along my little brother sometimes).

* * * *

B. The Korean War. A long, long time ago. Well, in my memory years, not too too many years, you could have found me on South Marshfield Street, on a warm Saturday morning. In the alley, I’m there washing and polishing a beautiful 1950 Plymouth convertible.

I had been taking good care of this car. I was like the Neighborhood Helper: shopper, babysitter, sidewalk-snow-shoveler, car washer, paperboy. I was eleven and twelve then. Even a good, successful Boy Scout (Senior Patrol Leader, no less).

The mother of a young man off to war in Korea had asked for some help with the car, and I had obliged. Such a beautiful machine! I worked to make him proud. We prayed for his return, his mom and I, to be healthy. And “If he doesn’t come back from Korea,” she said one day, in a moment of deep sorrow and emotion, “the car will be yours.” Amen! Oh, how I prayed. And prayed. “Please, God…” I tried to pray. “Dear God . . .” God must have heard my prayers, for he returned–and often gave me long rides for my hard work. “O God!”

My friend, called “Betsy” (last time I ever named a car), was good transportation, better in the cold. The engine just quit in the hot weather. I was learning something about cars and engines when I threw a rod, and had a classmate rebuild the engine. Then I grew into a ’54 Ford, my Mechanic-Me machine. A V-8 that got my hands dirty: I did brakes, new spiffy grill, and installed a Holley 4-barrel carb. Sweet! I did all that while keeping all my fingers and thumbs intact.

“Will you marry me?” I asked in my black 4-door hardtop ’57 Oldsmobile. Oh, that was My Beauty, the Loveofmylife. Like no other. My “wooing” machine.

And after that “Yes,” My Automobile History becomes a catalog of special machines, with special stories: travel, vacation, auto accidents, blizzards, camping, broken bones, emergencies, and other illnesses. The machines were athletic (Sportage); creepy-crawly (Beetle and “bug”); Arthurian (Avalon); class standing (Squire); and metaphysical-theological (SOUL).

Cars come and go. Miles and miles. Bought, sold, traded, leased. Oil changes, maintenances, contracts, extended warranties, license renewals, sales taxes, repainted, detailed, egged, hailed upon, bird-shat upon, iced and salted. And sales personnel. Those sales personnel. “What will it take to make the deal? To make you walk out of here happy?” Some buyers thrive on haggling. Some would rather have a root canal without Novocain than buy a new car.

However, when all is said and done, the papers are signed twenty times or so, that new car smell: nothing else like it. Some dream of their dream car for years; others, it’s merely a “thing” to worry about and get washed once in a while when it looks dirty. I have had my favorites, have drooled on many a steering wheel at auto shows in my “salad days.”

Small Demonstration at an Auto Show

It has been a fun run, and yet a stressful one, too, at times, without maps or directions (GPS and Garmin have helped). I’ve enjoyed the rides, the miles; I have been avoiding trouble, while having fond memoriesofatime, though witnessing some horrible accidents.

Yes, I’ve run out of gas, have broken down, needed towing, gotten lost (but more often than not, asked for directions), had my own accidents–and, yes, had a few traffic tickets/citations of my own, don’tcha know? My share.

I’m coming up for another license renewal in a couple of years. I’m not worried: I’ve been at this for a while. Yes, the bright night lights now do bother my surgeried-cataracts, so I won’t be on the road much after dark (when the monsters come out anyway).

So please watch out for me: I’ll have my blinkers on. I’m slow (always following the speed limit) in the left fast lane. I try not to hit squirrels and other rodents. Oh, did I mention? My driver’s license is stamped SAFE DRIVER. ORGAN DONOR. O+

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On September 24, 2015, Pope Francis became the first pope to address a joint meeting of the United States Congress. Dorothy Day was one of four Americans mentioned by the Pope in his speech to the joint session that included Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Thomas Merton. He said of Day: “Her social activism, her passion for justice and for the cause of the oppressed, were inspired by the Gospel, her faith, and the example of the saints.”

Dorothy Day (November 8, 1897–November 29, 1980) was an American journalist, social activist, and Catholic convert. She initially lived a bohemian lifestyle before gaining fame as a social activist after her conversion, and later became a key figure in the Catholic Worker Movement, earning a national reputation as a political radical. Some might perhaps deem her the most famous radical in American Catholic Church history.

In the 1930s, she worked closely with fellow activist Peter Maurin to establish the Catholic Worker Movement, a pacifist movement that combined direct aid for the poor and homeless with nonviolent direct action on their behalf. She did practice civil disobedience, which led at times to arrests, in 1955, 1957, and even in 1973 at the age of seventy-five.

As part of the Catholic Worker Movement, Day co-founded the Catholic Worker newspaper in 1933, and served as its editor from 1933 until her death in 1980.

Day supported herself as a journalist, writing a gardening column for the local paper, the Staten Island Advance and features articles and book reviews for several Catholic publications, like Commonweal.

She wrote in her autobiography: “I could write, I could protest, to arouse the conscience, but where was the Catholic leadership in the gathering of bands of men and women together, for the actual works of mercy that the comrades had always made part of their technique in reaching the workers?”

The Catholic Worker Movement

In 1932, Day met Peter Maurin, the man she always credited as the founder of the movement with which she is identified. Despite his lack of formal education, Maurin was a man of deep intellect and decidedly strong views, with a vision of social justice and its connection with the poor, partly inspired by St. Francis of Assisi. He provided Day with the grounding in Catholic theology of the need for social action they both felt.

The first issue of The Catholic Worker appeared on May 1, 1933, priced at one cent, and published continuously since then. It was aimed at those suffering the most in the depths of the Great Depression, “those who think there is no hope for the future,” and announced to them that “the Catholic Church has a social program…there are men of God who are working not only for their spiritual but for their material welfare.”

It was an unapologetic example of advocacy journalism. It provided coverage of strikes, explored working conditions, especially of women and blacks, and explicated papal teaching on social issues. Its viewpoint was partisan and stories were designed to move its readers to take action locally, for example, by patronizing laundries recommended by the Laundry Workers’ Union. Its advocacy of federal child labor laws put it at odds with the American Church hierarchy from its first issue. (Ironically, the paper’s principal competitor both in distribution and ideology was the Communist Daily Worker.)

In 1972, the Jesuit magazine America marked her 75th birthday by devoting an entire issue to Day and the Catholic Worker movement. The editors wrote: “By now, if one had to choose a single individual to symbolize the best in the aspiration and action of the American Catholic community during the last forty years, that one person would certainly be Dorothy Day.”

Day suffered a heart attack and died on November 29, 1980, and is buried in the Cemetery of the Resurrection on Staten Island just a few blocks from the beachside cottage where she first became interested in Catholicism. Her many papers are housed at Marquette University along with many records of the Catholic Worker movement.

Much of her life in activism was fraught with controversy, Church versus anarchists, pacifism versus anarchism, respect for Castro and Ho Chi Minh, anti-Church and Franco. Yet despite all her works and writings, she and her life cannot be easily dismissed or hidden away. Her movement is a significant part of the cloth of American culture, of the spectrum of the American worker’s history, and is noted as part of her role in establishing non-violence as a Catholic principle: “the nonviolent witness of such figures as Dorothy Day and Martin Luther King has had profound impact upon the life of the Church in the United States” as written in a May 1983 pastoral letter issued by the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, “The Challenge of Peace.”

In 1983, the Claretian Missionaries put forth publicly a proposal for her canonization. At the request of Cardinal John J. O’Connor, head of the diocese in which she lived, in March 2000, Pope John Paul II granted the Archdiocese of New York permission to open her cause, allowing her to be called a “Servant of God” in the eyes of the Catholic Church. As canon law requires, the Archdiocese of New York submitted this cause for the endorsement of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, which it received in November 2012. However, some members of the Catholic Worker Movement objected to the canonization process as a contradiction of Day’s own values and concerns. Nevertheless, Pope Benedict XVI, on February 13, 2013, in the closing days of his papacy, cited Day as an example of conversion. He quoted from her writings and said: “The journey towards faith in such a secularized environment was particularly difficult, but Grace acts nonetheless.”

In many Irish-American families, children sometimes used the familiar or informal “Da” for “father” or “Dad.” It would be pronounced like “Dad” without the final d, not “Dah” as in “la-di-da.” (We were not typical Irish-American; we were Irish-German-Bohemian.)

1957

Always he knew how to wear a traditional fedora. And knew how to tip his hat to a woman–or especially to a nun:1960

Without a doubt, one of the happiest of times–memoriesofatime–being told by me Da and me:

October 12, 1963

I don’t remember me da ever cursing or swearing. Really? Well, maybe once or twice on a delivery that went bad, he could have shared a bar of Lifebuoy soap with Ralphie. But I loved it when he exclaimed: “Are ye daft?”

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“A fingerprint in its narrow sense is an impression left by the friction ridges of a human finger. Fingerprints are easily deposited on suitable surfaces (such as glass or metal or polished stone) by the natural secretions of sweat from the eccrine glands that are present in epidermal ridges. In a wider use of the term, fingerprints are the traces of an impression from the friction ridges of any part of a human hand.

“Deliberate impressions of fingerprints may be formed by ink or other substances transferred from the peaks of friction ridges on the skin to a relatively smooth surface such as a fingerprint card. Fingerprint records normally contain impressions from the pad on the last joint of fingers and thumbs, although fingerprint cards also typically record portions of lower joint areas of the fingers.

“Human fingerprints are detailed, nearly unique, difficult to alter, and durable over the life of an individual, making them suitable as long-term markers of human identity. They may be employed by police or other authorities to identify individuals who wish to conceal their identity, or to identify people who are incapacitated or deceased, as in the aftermath of a natural disaster.” [See Wikipedia for more material’]

Where is Thumbkin? Where is Thumbkin?
(Hide hands behind back)
Here I am! Here I am!
(Show L thumb, then R thumb)
How are you today, sir?
(Wiggle L thumb)
Very well, I thank you.
(Wiggle R thumb)
Run away, run away.
(Hide LH behind back, then RH)

[This is a song often sung in Head Start classes I taught, bringing memoriesofatime.]

This is my Thumbkin [my thumb].

This is a fingerprint identification chart.

History of MY LEFT THUMBKIN: SMASHED in a church door when I was a youngster in Chicago (with little memories of that pain). SMASHED in a friend’s car door while I was in college: “Good night. Thanks for the ride home.” SLAM! Car begins to pull away. “WAIT!” as I scream in pain, pounding on the passenger’s side window, Thumbkin still in the door. In the Emergency Room, I looked at the thumb twice the size as normal, bruised and blue and internally bleeding. But flattened. And the throbbing. Throbbing. Throbbing. “Scalpel.” Holes drilled into the nail. Pain and blood.

Later: August 1964: Rochester, Minnesota, Airport parking lot. Slipped, fell, and slid along asphalt, Thumbkin extended. ER: cleansing of bits and pieces of Minnesota, stitches, and awful drilling into the bruised and battered nail, throbbing. And throbbing. And throbbing. Young ER resident took an alcohol lamp, bent a paperclip, grabbed it with a forceps. Taking the red-hot paperclip, he pssit pssit pssit pssit pssit five holes into the nail, blood squirting and oozing. NO PAIN! “Just a trick I learned in med school.”

My fingerprints are on file. Or not…

I was first fingerprinted in the spring of 1963, for a government position: The U. S. Post Office [USPS]. Once more, in 1980, then in 2003–all for positions with public agencies. After retirement, I applied as a free-lancer, and once more needed to have my prints updated. “Mr. O’Neil, could you come with me, please.” I followed down the long hall in the administrative offices, in 2010, and was led into a small room. On a small table was a device I had never before seen. “You’ll have to insert your left thumb into that hole with the red light.” “Is there a problem?” “You don’t seem to have fingerprints. We need to do a deeper, thorough examination of your ridges, that’s all.” After some time, I was given the proper directions and allowed to leave. “But whatever happened to my prints?” I had asked before leaving. “Acid…”

My professional career began in 1963. I had a few hobbies–coin collecting, for one– but none like doing stained glass work, from 1990-2014, until my back “gave out”–and I could no longer lift and bend like before. I had to stop. An essential part of working with glass and solder is the use of acid flux.

Paste Flux

A flux (derived from Latin fluxus meaning “flow”) is a chemical cleaning agent, flowing agent, or purifying agent, for metal joining. Flux allows solder to flow easily on the working piece rather than forming beads as it would otherwise. Flux is usually, normally, applied with a brush, to the joints to be soldered.

Stained Glass Piece Soldered Restoration

But in the turning and moving of a glass piece being worked on, if the artist does not wear gloves, flux begins to work on the skin and, of course, the finger tips. Flux is an acid, and a poison.My fingertips would peel; I thought nothing of it. No pain. Just washed well. I did my best to take care, and did wear gloves as often as possible, but…

And that’s the real story of my thumb and fingerprints…

In the minds of some, however, there exists another story, one of fascination, intrigue, and cover and covert operations: That my forty-year teaching career concealed my true identity and sheltered my true profession: CIA Operative. How this story may have been initiated and by whom puzzles me.

I see no resemblance to any “secret agent.”

JIM

JASON

These pictures were taken many years ago, and I never remember telling stories to my boys who might have had over-active imaginations, with their Batman and Robin, and other hero-Super-hero themes in their lives. Why would I have told the kids about the CIA? Did someone else tell them? Well, that story–and the fingerprint issue–just needs to be put to rest once and for all. And that is that.

BTW: Here’s a picture of one of my favorite authors who, along with Robert Ludlum, did write good political intrigue fiction.

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MOTHERS’ DAY: The current holiday was created in 1908 as a day to honor one’s mother. President Woodrow Wilson made the day an official national holiday in 1914.

Have you ever been asked, “Who is the person you most admired from your childhood?” I believed from once upon a time that everything “must be true. My mother said so.”

Yes, that worked for me, with my religion of motherolatry. I thought it was true: My mother was all-powerful, all knowing, all loving, and all wise–seeing all.

M-O-M = G-O-D.

Then it happened: 9th grade for sure. World History. Discussion question about . . . and my answer: “My mother said so.” And the teacher’s response: “Your mother is not God!” shouted back by my man-teacher wearing his black cassock. “NO?”

How could I have been so naive? How did I ever make it into high school believing that my mother had the VERUM VERBUM, the true word? When did I stop believing? When did I come to that realization the Game of Life was changing? That I had to learn for myself?

Somewhere, sometime, I said, “NO!” to Mom-God. There I was, probably shaking while or after the words came from my mouth. My Act of Rebellion.

And so it goes in the Game of Life, as we grow through adolescence into adulthood (which my pop-psychology taught me. Or was that Gail Sheehy: Tryout Twenties, Turbulent Thirties, Flourishing Forties, Flaming Fifties, and Serene Sixties?).

* * *

I cannot imagine not having a mother, losing her to disease [Steel Magnolias], in a car accident [Raising Helen], in childbirth [The Sign], to a hunter’s bullet [Bambi], or to the many other awful things that happen to mothers before their children know them.

“I lost my mother when I was five.” “I don’t remember my mother.” “My mother died of cancer, when I was seventeen.” “My mom never came home from the party.”

And on it went, as I read college essay after college essay, year after year, for over twenty years. This question was my choice. I wanted my students to do personal narratives by which they could express themselves–and do their best writing–I hoped.

As the semesters ended, I turned to my readings. Often tired, I usually would become pensive while reading. I tried to be an objective reader, weighing the writing against the grading standards. Yet so often I was pulled into the story being told. I think I was, at times, like Miss Lonelyhearts [by Nathaniel West], encountering sad story after sad story, truth stranger than fiction. I could not help it.

Essays ranged from the “My mother took care of me when I was sick” to “My mom had it rough raising the nine of us with no father…or with a druggie father…or with an alcoholic father…or with a___ father.” [How did she manage?]

While I was drifting off, and away from the papers, my own questions, my own answers snuck in: How did my mother manage to sleep, work nights (mostly), raise the four of us, and keep up with the household duties–and be a wife, too?

Doing the dishes was the job that fell to my sister, Janice, and me. We learned–and were outstanding dish-doers. “Glasses, knives, and forks. Dishes, pots, and pans.” That was The Sacred Order. I learned that way, from Mom. [Trait One: MANAGER]

Years before (maybe when in 9th grade?) as I was washing coffee cups after supper, I reached into the soapy water, reaching after a cup that slipped from my soapy left hand. My hand went automatically to retrieve the cup, but the broken cup sliced into the fingers of my left hand. Blood in the water. Panic from the immediate intense pain, soap-in-cut. My sister screaming for, of course, “M-O-M!” [Trait Two: NURSE]

“Mom, can you read my story before you go to work?” [Trait Three: GRAMMARIAN] ‘Nuff said.

Mothers cheer us on: “You can do it. Go ahead! Go ahead!” I remember vividly, her feeling good on a warm Saturday evening in Chicago. She had just ridden the (used) small bicycle bought for me. I ran alongside her with glee. At the corner, she turned around, giving me the bike. My turn. My first two-wheeler.

“You can do it. Try again,” I heard as I tried to gain balance, but fell into the bushes. Getting up, scratched arms be damned!, I tried again. Her laughing encouragement behind me grew as I cycled away from her. At the end of the sidewalk, near the alley, I stopped (applying the brakes expertly), then fell over–and off. I turned back to see my mom waiting at the end of the street. I rode to her. “Expertly,” of course. Yeah, wobbling from side to side, houses’ steps and bushes on the right, grass-curb-city street on the left. I pedaled the gauntlet. To Mom. [Trait Four: CYCLIST TRAINER]

50s BICYCLE (CREDIT: LIVEAUCTIONEERS)

“What do you think I should do?”

If there is one question I ask, probably more than any other, it is “What do you think I should do?” My kids do it. My wife does it. We all do it.

Looking over my Early Asking Age to now, I realize this has to be The Ultimate Question: Each of us is a Grand Inquisitor. We seek answers. I seek (and sought) answers. However, the answers that come from “What do you think I should do?”, though not unique to kids asking moms, make us Deciders. For the answer usually is, “You’ll have to decide.” It means, “You’ll have to make up your own mind–and live with it.” This is not cold, harsh, cruel, but is concerning, caring, and–when I think more about it–allowing the Inquisitor to grow and live. Therefore, we talk and discuss and ask: “What should we do?”

Yes, just like a mom, she said, “Yes, you’ll have to decide.” Just as I expected, not unexpected. [Trait Five: NON-DECIDER/DECIDER]

Good move, for, as we all know so well, not just Mother Nature, but “Mother knows best” (often).

So I would search those student essays for goodness and admiration, stories that demonstrated “goodness” and “admiration.” “All the good” moms do . . . “is oft interred with their bones.”

NO! The good DOES live after them. I CAN recall the good times, the admired times; memories of the hard times, the rough times; illnesses, job layoffs, or . . . .”

Too, from Trait Five, I learned: to be able to reach decisions, come to conclusions, after rational thought, not impulse thoughts, but rather, like a good Indiana Jones Crusader, to choose wisely.